I recently had one of those moments where my heart filled with complete joy.
You know those moments … the ones where you look around, take a deep breath and say to yourself, “More of this, please.” And it was nothing of significance; just a simple fire roaring in our backyard, filling the air with that campfire smell and providing a little extra warmth as the night grew colder. But in that moment, I wondered to myself why we didn’t do this more.
Perhaps it is the glossy pictures in magazines or the romantic gondola rides featured in films that romanticise Venice. Yet, as I meandered across the canals of the city of water, I struggled to find the romance or beauty in the maze of streets.
So, on my second night in Venice while the setting sun drew in to the clouds overhead, I entered St. Mark’s square. I nurtured the hope of drawing away from the bustling tourist-packed passageways that ran like veins through the city.
I’m writing this letter to thank you for never leaving me, even after all this time, after I went ahead and grew up. Even now – you stay. And I love you, because I need you, and to be able to pretend, and you know me like no one else could.
I feel you close by, just a whisper’s distance, even when life gets overwhelming and my Second Star seems quite far away. You are in my periphery always, and I want you to know that I catch a precious glimpse of you each time you come to visit like the treasured company you are.
He carried a floral gift bag bigger than any purse I owned into my kitchen. My birthday present. I wore a dress the colors of the ocean, my hair curled, my makeup done for our night at the philharmonic. I couldn’t wait for the night to start, but lingering excitement came over me as I suspected what might just be in that floral bag.
The tissue paper susurrated as I swept it aside and withdrew a wrapping paper-covered box. It was a carrying case, and inside was my 1948 Remington Rand typewriter. The tiny metal arms stamped with letters and numbers fanned around the green-gray shell and the black ribbon that transfers the ink to the creamy linen pages. The silver lever that moved the type to the next line gleamed. A tiny part of me suspected, but I didn’t let myself believe, that this glittering slice of magic was in that bag. It was the most romantic gift I’ve ever received.